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Subjectively, I could spend a lifetime living a life beyond its amplitude interpreting what a solitary work of art means, and devote hours upon hours reconditioning that principle with an ever-evolving state of mind. Then, upon the account my mortality surrenders itself and my gaze softens to a close, as eyelids bow down extracted from the heavens and my final breath delivers this legacy of borrowed energy to the center extending everywhere, outwardly present in all places, I will realize at long last, free from doubt, cleared from reluctance, that that voluminous meaning struck me down, possessed me with sublimity, not over lengths of time through trifling trials or brave sufferings—my effete hand at this mortal coil—but at early glance! Truth entered me, enriched me, and sang the melody vital to my soul, ambient lushness of the ocean divine as heard by a sound and spotless mind. From that coruscation stemmed sumptuous awakenings adorned, patterned by that paragon, in that my dreams forever bled in homage to that inexplicable fascination, until alas I would dream no more the flailing of that beauty. Perhaps deep within I am romanticizing tragedy.

Perhaps the theme I wish to underscore is that of hope. In my lifetime dreams take forms, lucidity I implore, as words and song, tendencies toward opulence in music to drown in luscious, sultry soundscapes, those dark and eerie, wistful sensibilities that I truly long for—o' how I wish to do more with these visions. Dreams take forms as sentiments, fluidity in behavior, the compassion I convey to ease the tension of individuals around me in daily congregation. I feel immense suffering in others, overwhelmingly so. Dreams take forms as heavy hopes I deploy to lift the many burdens that no living being ought to bear. These lifting forms veritably define me, yet somehow even in flight I find I retain melancholic disposition. I wish to be more grateful in my life regarding people I love wholeheartedly, including those I barely know yet wish to express such love and warm sincerity, likewise regarding my potentiality hidden low in some turmoil of reality. When I awaken from this dream, I will learn to not be so merciless in my pursuit of happiness.

Meddling truths, they do me in. Ponderous entries, what walls I build from them, confound and construe withal values hauntingly adduced—a maddening portrayal of underachievement, hindering fears, tiresome importance, personal burdens, open-ended upkeep of the bourgeois life presumed substantial, and the conquest to face and overcome these tribulations triumphantly—all for the sake of betterment, the loft of ideals aimed at beauty, freedom, love, truth, traits that reckon to be traits. All in all but ephemeral, I take them overboard, leave behind a barren, wooden husk defeated by its own compass, and sink with them to that fond depth tethered to the dreams that I envision.

No words, no eyes. How shall I take what is given to me? If I cannot see in the dark, I will never see at all.
Current Mood: exhaustedexhausted
Current Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZdsD4d4Q9Y&list=UUHkSh3D7O2eB_23XUYEqnkA&index=64
During these examinations of art I start to wonder, as I become unraveled, undisciplined by the experience, whether or not I am forcing meanings upon myself, characterizing the deepest pool of self immersed in truth. I perish from these distractions. To be convinced that the totality of meaning, mountainous with its notoriety to the expository explorer, indeed fits is like trying to imagine the perpetual division of the numerical 'one'. In theory the singularity in mathematics bears distinctiveness that is presumptuously indisputable. Able senses paired with tools infringe a limit, can only follow the golden sections of an incessant spiral so far along before they dwindle out of view and venture forth as theory, a return to origin with singular, blinking transpiration. The eternal beauty is that there will always be a return to origin with each great plummeting divide.

I find I revisit works of art, make it a priority—perhaps instead letting them find me—so as to keep the circumstances trailed at abstraction alive, the demands of preliminary intrigue that I will never come to understand. Perhaps if I dwell on them, through them long enough as if sought to be personified I will begin to perceive what art sees in me, mirroring no words to describe me, no determinable features to ascertain, no nest or context or foreboding for my afterglow. When I dare become abstract, how shall I be perceived? Pay no mind, and I will serve no purpose.

Art survives as it does because the observer reciprocates two paradigmatic functions, impression and preservation. When art speaks to me I want to be a part of it as it is now a part of me. It inhabits my mind and together we devise meaning, and this code is infinitely embedded into my being, simply because I acquiesce the capacity for it. The end result is purpose, functionality made useful. Preservation is key to allow for the impression to flourish. Notably, the implications of possessing a physical piece of art are monumental—the pinnacle of abstract and organic connectivity. Art is given function, given purpose; where meaning is implanted, truth emerges.

A lifetime could be spent deciphering a work of art. With every moment that passes, an everlasting gaze gets captured. Each instance of thought propels an infinite number of others, each housing the consummate construct of meaning amassing its momentum. In part, meanings define the spectator who examines, exemplifies them. Oppositely in the collective overlapping of thoughts, the premise for the spectator is to define meanings quintessential to growth. As time evolves and meanings are devoured, remembered, regulated, truths become altered to satisfy conditions of the wavering state of self—completeness there to harvest, there in abundance for the taking.

There is a balance on the other side; all that is lost is found within. Meanings may seem to come and go, wither and fade or grow with variances in amplitude, like desert wind sculpting the bustling, sandy landscape. The mind's eye's beyond idiosyncrasy pertaining to short-lived corporal senses. Depicted peering inwardly, the mind transforms from telescopic objectification via an array of human mysticism, to an endless ocean perceived by all facets of knowing rivaling certainty from an all-encompassing center, with otherworldly light so magnificent, so impeccably bright, pulsating amaranthine brilliance in an interminable fusillade, that pierces sharply through the third eye, envelopes the entire unending ocean—thus invokes an ancient language, becomes one with its enlightened sentinel no longer that of mind but celestial, boundless light—awakened, avowed, all within.
Current Mood: creativecreative
Current Music: https://soundcloud.com/dalot
It is strange to stare at art. One stares until all meaning is consumed, all shapes and triumphs swallowed up. One stares devouring figurative contemporaries with swift, encompassing prestige, abandons blazon in their youth.

One stares compiling truths stretched out upon the dawn, its shimmering brilliance spellbound through the vastness, as if to channel that unending conquest inward by yields of subjectivity, as if to funnel that heavenly summit through an array of sentiment, to invigorate that which spans its ratio, sheer golden as it glistens. One stares at but shards of the enormity seeded and surmounted unto self meticulously sprouting aura. One stares with hunger inside the mesmerizing flock of twilight, like a hunter surveying its prey that lurks about the dense landscape, existent in a shroud of syncopated entrapment. To learn the timid bending of the shadows signalling their keeper is key to the methodical kill, blood for blood, bound by basis, 'to eat or be eaten in their turn'.

Such ancient tastes, the exquisite tongue swirls perplexities to the proficiency in light. Its divine preservation stays committed to memory, analogous to that of an auriferous music box playing to the resonance of the heart, itself a wide splendor of universe, whose echoes birth and spiral out to reach no bounds, no surrounding ends returning, no terminus with which to compromise. For every exquisite beat that chimes outward and onward, an eternity looms in the folds between them. O' how they speak to me! colors bled from the celestial body where exacting translations confer their openings kindred to my everything. Further I seek to know the self reflected boldly in the deep. Further I reap the hallowed wealth exploited at the center, and befit the immaculate majesty dissolved within its measures.

Further I pivot perilously toward the reckoning of enduring an antithesis, the I within, the I without, waves of thunderous clamor that clash and heave, trespassing upon phantom shores, resounding truths with which to exemplify, the I, nowhere, imploring softer space: Come silent, quiet sleep. Awaken then, invoke it thus, the universe swells and sings in you! Verses ethereal open wide! Nothingness, in celebration of the confounded term, strengthens and emboldens in breathing fire upon its wake, engulfing, ushering defiance to the lavishes of passivity pronouncing pure, predisposed profundity. Such wrought bewilderment in bearing evocation seethes intricacies confined to chaos, patterns enriched to the tethers of prim dimensions to quantify in meaning a paradoxical pulse to the widening eye peering at all its space enamored with endeavor.

The gaze, still. However temporal in that dour state, it never feels justifiable to alas break away, never feels replete to have pearlish eyes cease exhuming abstract endlessness. It is appalling to think that all of it shall never quite fit within the infinite confines of the mind, nor absorbed as whole, grasped entirely, stored in full. It is formidable to believe that any episodic slice of life shall never be of optimum duration to attain in absolution that which one perceives intently and devoutly.

In time, quivering comprehensions reveal themselves as shrouds upon the expanse and collapse of mind. If all primitive meanings fill it to the brim—whose center is met at its immeasurable circumference—all derivative meanings may occupy that identical space, seemingly interwoven in procuring infinite continuum. If the mind were to spill over, what drenched dreams may come of it, what truths to saturate the proclivity to exploit them further still?
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: https://soundcloud.com/markvalkner (privately sampling some new material, will post soon)
19 August 2015 @ 11:11 am
Mother, today marks your first birthday since your passing. I will devote the day playing rich and vibrant music for you. Candles will be lit aflame by your aura. I miss you dearly. Te amo...

In the happenstance family reads this: Please illuminate the day with goodness poured like sweet nectar from the temple of the heart. I love you all so very much.


"Also, my mom wanted to ask when your mom's birthday was? She said she had a dream about her. That she was in a bridal gown. Not the one that she has now, but a different one. And that she was happy. She told me to tell you this."

I feel her happiness tugging at my spine. She is reunited, returned to origin. I forevermore melt effervesced by this resonance.
Current Mood: peacefulpeaceful
23 January 2015 @ 07:33 pm
Rest in peace, dear mother. You no longer need to suffer.

I love you.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
26 December 2014 @ 04:44 pm
From birth
I am taught selflessness
The compassion in me
Enables this
Suffering comes naturally
I am to overcome
The constant feeling
Of necessity
The burdening fear
Of non-fulfillment
Designs that plague my efforts
That shift in truth
As ceaseless as shadows
Wrought and flung against the light.

To death
I embark with all purity
My wisdom affords
Humble in its luxury
Our stops along the way
Consist of valued ceremonies
In which we bury our burdens
Then from sunset to sunrise
We feast and dine with mourning
At times she undresses by the sea
Fondled underneath by moonlight
And our eager drunken curiosity
It is a passion rhythmic to the waves
And then inside sand
We sleep tight
And dream vivid delight
Nude like the breeze
Fragrant like the caress
Of an early dawn
Beckoning rise to our sails
Filled by the glory of wind
Its secrets take us far
But first we bid farewell
To our lover our beauty
Our heavy hearts entwined
Faces wet with tears
Rummaged by bittersweet kisses
Final embraces lasting for eternity.

Only a lover
Can truly know someone
Like a phantasm
Emerging from its dream.
Current Mood: indescribable
15 April 2014 @ 12:31 am
Propensity thus the allure
Should one look into mirrors
A myth within—ineffable eyes
The paradox has a home
A point in time
Circumspect yet to be
Referencing continuation
When chaos becomes
Not at large but focally routine
Under the code of moon
To outshine the sun
With the light it thieves.
Current Mood: sleepysleepy
Current Music: https://soundcloud.com/cashmerecat
27 March 2014 @ 12:04 am
"This is question, English is faulty. Thank computer to translate to help. SORRY!!!!!
"At often, the goat-time install a error is vomit.
"How many times like the wind, a pole, and a dragon?
"This insult to father's stones?
"Please apologize for your stupidity. There are a many thank you."
02 November 2013 @ 08:52 pm
Day of the Dead, comprised of three total, ends today. I never celebrated it growing up, odd being half-Mexican, but I acknowledge and respect it. It is important to understand death alongside life, like effervescent shadows poured from the body flailing across these paths we take. Death entered my life at an early, developmental age. I can only implore meaning in this demurely if not gravely, utmost sincerest upon learning newfound ways to weep. I do not recall when I do, but strains of me concurrent to the melt of eyes, as burdens commit themselves to flee, collect at pools of this heart they shape—if only to shower the ones I love if ever disheartened, to wash and soothe their haggard souls. Here, eclipsed, to the day.

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Current Mood: peacefulpeaceful
28 April 2013 @ 07:21 pm
When my element returns to me, I will clench it to the torrent of my heart, blissfully, insisting it belongs there.

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“From underneath the chaos of appearances, among all the times and places, within the illusion of things that spawn and beget—one among them, one like them yet distinct from them, one related to them, one the same and yet one more—from the infinite potential of all possible existences, I surge forth…” [Édouard Dujardin, Les lauriers sont coupés (1887)]
Current Mood: indescribable
Current Music: https://soundcloud.com/phedre
05 February 2013 @ 06:28 pm
I think toward the end of my life all I would want to do is sleep, so death would seem rather inviting.

My everyday life. Every moment, as it transmogrifies into memory, stands still poised in an integral paradigm of all that it means. When I am most sensitive to this metamorphosis, the inner being vicariously channeled, the sentiment in that I am host to these feelings, wherefore derived to interpret what I may one day lose, draws ink upon conditions of paper, page upon page until exhausted; another awaits; another awaits; another awaits.

The books in which I write and have kept throughout the years and use to document my dreams, in waking life in conflict with the other side, are monuments in water. I am moved by everything, inundated, thus inspired, and take to pen what torrents deploy of me. I seek hallowed grounds to crystallize my efforts, existential and forbidding, and if a poem should speak any louder to saturate the listener, have it be woven onto canvas by which intellectual interpretation may flourish. Be it art. Be it a configuration of the heart that bleeds. Be it the soul that weeps eternally.
Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: M83 - Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts
25 November 2012 @ 05:33 pm
Peace: That is for what we are aiming. Then we will shoot it down. Where it falls there we shall make a home, nearer to the mountains, nearer than ever before. The sun will fall sooner along the other side, but with a glow like peace, who needs spheres of fire? We will leave behind our pardons in an upheaval of farewells, and with proper riddance the like, and count our footsteps to an abounding homestead.

Tomorrow is a modest consignment, undressing behind closed doors. We take kindly to peepholes, and wake to the sensation of voyeurism. Perhaps we're living as moisture settled upon a dream. Nevertheless, I'm feeling admittedly concupiscent in my quiet place.

Behavioral sun at play
Atop a saddened world
With shadow unbridled
To the arrest of the epiphany
Set closest to vibrations—
The exploration stops watch
At how time steers measured
In featured eclipses of the sun—
Makeshift and shall educate
The setting of the stars round
Most where scatter spheres
With their stories of principle.
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
Current Music: http://soundcloud.com/thatsdeck/tracks
18 November 2012 @ 05:40 pm
As for what I've been up to: Life has taken me to a pleasant disposition. I spend my days with a poignant lover. Our colors blend well, nestled in our space. I feel more myself than ever, my ability to listen to music has advanced to a higher degree, I feel ever more responsible, forever young and old, but at the same time I feel as though I am still waiting for life to begin.

And, in the time I spend anticipating that moment to manifest entrance, all of my experiences seem to me as ghosts I encounter while dreaming, patiently yet feverishly, awaiting myself to wake.

“A fable says that Truth and Falsehood went bathing; Falsehood came first out of the water and dressed herself in Truth’s garments. Truth, unwilling to take those of Falsehood, went naked.”
Current Mood: productiveproductive
Current Music: http://soundcloud.com/astronautico/tracks
30 August 2012 @ 01:01 pm
At well enchantment
From above those
      carousel heads
Danced little worlds
Afire, aglow, afire, aglow
      To the music of
            Dampened shrines
                  And chaos
And pockets of light
      that from within ignited
            each their little fantasies
When struck with might
      And loyal concentration
            Purity and worth.

Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
26 August 2012 @ 12:14 pm

“Beloved, I will begin building your city tomorrow.”
Current Mood: busybusy
26 July 2012 @ 06:43 pm
I had conversations with the starving, and they ate my words.

Too common a courtesy
Tightened to my lips
Like a quiet turn
A tooth with two craters
Where I might hide
To deter my pain
A self embodied there
In one dark hole
And an intrusion
In the other.

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Current Mood: exhaustedexhausted
Oh, daylight, what do you want?
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
27 June 2012 @ 03:24 pm
Most unfortunately I spend my time sorting and devising to understand my tastes rather than exemplifying them.

Suspension of duality—eager derivative—consciousness, self-awareness; I, myself I keep, nearer in the distance—to know the other half—

I am to imagine how I am viewed by others while preserving my state of self, while imagining their imaginings of all that trails beyond in the entrapment of our shared moment, overshadowing any advancement of cognitive means. What it is we share is valued by maddening formless dominion, a sense of hope accompanying it withering at our feet. Perhaps it is the moment itself which has no mouth and feels the need to scream. Perhaps it is the reunion of the divided self.

Should your wits be about you
What infliction you might face
Is neither friend nor foe
Yet speaks to you in sleep
Dressed deep in familiarity
The drapes of common bidding
From far unto the other side
Where echoes fade to die.
Current Mood: productiveproductive
They raise us; we
Lay them down
Twice the pupil
Like centers of two universes
Floating in a flood of white
Drenched in smoke and dust
Influence and experience
Evoke their drift
At sightings far and vast
To validate this instinct
Emergence hastened forth
Quickening in context
Where to relate the inward
State of being
In belonging to a place
Then, retiring
To the astoundings of thunder
By remote regions’ disconnect
From mind.

All the world’s makings
Lie in wrists to open truths
Fit to bleed them out.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: http://astronautico.bandcamp.com/album/broken-arrow-ep
The material unfurls
To the ferly eye locked at helm:
A presumable peril—
Ascertained to hunt those grounds
Where fleeting go the moments
To adorn oneself a dream—
Understood there to be lifeless
In the melting quietus of self.

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A reliance on time;
My, how
The hours are relentless.
Current Mood: draineddrained
Current Music: http://soundcloud.com/faldmusic/sets
11 May 2012 @ 11:03 pm
To her it is a soap opera that does not end, a theatrical drama vacant of applause signaling desistance. The curtain disobeys and refuses to drop, and we are left to suffer at the hands of its adversity—not with sympathy, not with compassion, not with empathy, but with pungent distaste at how a mind could bolster itself with such dishonesty yet call that affliction a bona fide form of love.

On a deathbed, that very mind will think: "How could I of all people be treated so unfairly?" A final breath exhales; denial.
Current Mood: okaydry
If you can read this, you deserve a snuggle.
Current Mood: nerdyinsightful
17 December 2011 @ 09:05 pm
Without you days of snow are but fallen slivers of a somnambulistic sky.

Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Current Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiEqWYawpeU&feature=relmfu
04 December 2011 @ 04:13 pm
“Are you cold there?”
“I am. I am cold sometimes.”
Current Mood: okaypartial
Current Music: Radiohead - TKOL RMX1234567
10 October 2011 @ 11:52 pm
Tomorrow I will have lived thirty years. Life has always been strange to me, nods toward a stranger in rivalry. If I were to reflect on my past, it would feel as though I conceived of my experiences in a blur, bouts in passing; this is obviously an intermittent theme with me, as it has shaped who I have become these meddling days.

And, my days are all I have, and they keep on at their pace, whether or not I implore that they mustn’t make such eager haste. But, my days are filled with an impressively potent love that over time has become intoxicatingly all-encompassing.

In late 2009 I fell in love with a girl, and with steadfast devotion I made the decision to move and be with her. This was not until March of 2010. The location was Denver, Colorado. This was not as daring as it may appear; the persuasion was a kindred heart, a soul about whom I felt too strongly to presuppose I would live a life without her. The feeling was entirely mutual—and extraordinary. Together, since, we have made a home, and with two precious cats we have made a family. All the blessings I could count aside, I conclude this aspect of my life with this: These days, no matter how formidable they are to me at any given time, are fulfilled with the deepest form of love—and that is a complete understatement.

A year before I moved to Denver, I visited a monk who foretold the futures of those who sought to know them, offered to them by unadulterated, and perhaps cosmic, interpretation. I did not necessarily care to know my own, it was my mother who insisted to know hers; I was simply her chaperone. I partook because I am open to all forms of belief and convictions of fate. It was there that he approved my audience; I listened carefully and earnestly to his reading. He occupied himself with little tasks while exchanging a rapid slate upon the tongue the thickest of foreign accents, which he also recorded onto a cassette tape that he let me keep. He became emotional, as did I; I recall tears rising and ready to fall—revisited wept, for and against the tide of my will. Ultimately, he left me with hopeful aspiration. He had said that when I reach 28 years of age, or by the end of it, I will have succeeded in starting a music career, based in both New York and California.

I was astonished. Writing music has always been something of dire interest, and it seemed all too fitting that that would be the outcome. At the time I pursued the dream with a greater sense of reason. By about a few years it felt feasible. My advances since then looked as if they were navigating toward that dream, especially with having moved to Denver, as unrelenting as time may be.

Within a year after establishing the brave new home, I was given the opportunity to compose music for a short film based out in Austin, Texas. This was voluntary, and after seeing firsthand the work in progress, my interest grew. I did not have the suitable software for such an undertaking, save for a standard recorder and audio program, not to mention the keys to my existence. Traditionally, I would have to manually compose to a set time and synchronize it with the film, which I did not do. Instead, I watched the film and gained a justifiable perspective. From that absorption I began composing. I recorded songs in a fundamentally experimental method, sent them to the people behind the project, and let them choose what they liked best. Almost half of what I wrote for the film was actually used, and the film is now being submitted to film festivals. I wish it the best of luck, and the time I spent working on the project I continue to observe as a valuable one.

This was less than one year ago. Since then, I revisited the songs from the film, as well as other small projects, and reworked my music. I have even managed to begin a Soundcloud account, an exhibition of certain compositions. As much as I would like to embrace other outlets for exposure, I feel I need a stronger portfolio, if you will. The piano demos are what I speak of—a long time coming. I keep waiting for the right moment, when all is cleared and I can breathe again. Inspiration strikes me at various proportions, but there is a part of me that overrules this current, the part that dictates balance. It would be typical to suggest how life gets in the way. It would be disappointing to say that when I return home from a long workday, I am too exhausted to work on music. So, I allocate that desire to the ends of the week, where more of life tends to steal the spotlight upon the stage, and another week goes by—music gets put aside yet again. This is unfortunate, to say the least. I do not understand where my time goes. I am aging faster than the hours tell of me its circles.

Perhaps the monk spoke truths. Perhaps my dreams and their material are driven to unfurl. Perhaps what is meant for me is as abundant as what I envision upon the aural tapestries scored through music. I have always been a late-bloomer. It takes longer for me to burden myself with realizations of the world, yet I embrace them with colossal sentiment. When I read my Libra horoscope, oftentimes the relevance is designated to the day that follows. On the semblance of a grander scale, as I oblige the breach of stars, I might be mightier the following year of my life. Thus, by the totality of means, if I am to get there, utmost and eventually, the road begins where—now—I place my feet upon it.

Wherefore I place my hands: When I play piano, sustained with emotive fluctuation, I am left absolute and drained. My extant soul pours; my entirety is widened. I live and die for this, as recurring as the casualties of breathing, in keeping well a steady heart. When I make music, it reflects upon everything known to me, like a cast of light saturating from within, and I start to prevail beyond that curtailed splinter of the mind. It is there that I am free to suffer; there I drown with purpose; there I am reborn.
Current Mood: pensivepensive
17 September 2011 @ 10:46 am
A strange dream:

Last night I dreamed of an attendance at a special type of concert. This was regularly accepted as an organized event where suicides take place while a band performs on stage. As I recall, The Smashing Pumpkins were playing, if perhaps cliché. I assume that various bands play at these events, and I just happened to be at this one.

It hadn't started yet, as I am remembering; people were gathered in the lobby talking amongst themselves. Eventually we were led in, anticipating the arrival state, and then I woke up with a heavy head. The only other things I remember: I may have been with friends, otherwise feeling detached; the seats were of red soft cushion.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
06 August 2011 @ 04:12 pm
There is no age at which one stops being a scholar. One lives until practice becomes pleasure, until art becomes lifestyle, and then lives out the rest of what days are left, solely, gardening bittersweet rationalization.

My kinder parts of soul would be far too shy and bothered for the fight, far too obliged for the taking. And, others that incapacitate their apprehension with apathy, they are far too absurd for that sweetly place in rivalry.

My inner-conflict speaks this, a body of whispers. And, this I sever to have known with eyes rich; although I sell myself short in the land of giants, I cast a shadow larger than they when fed whole to light.
Current Mood: calmcalm
Current Music: http://blip.fm/profile/buttsworth/blip/58517194/Bauhaus%E2%80%93Bela+Lugosi%27s+
02 July 2011 @ 10:56 am
Our glass hour,
Feeling most welcome—
Comfortable, functional,
Happy, and accepted—
In the kindest of environments.

Secretly dying, as applicable abiding,
Downward south—action and reaction—
Though, of the back-roads I am aware.

So many wonders about
About which to think—
No time for retort
In wilt, spilt utterance—
Our years apart.

For essence lost in the memory of all that we speak, meet me in a place less confined by purpose.
Current Mood: okaystranger
Current Music: http://blip.fm/buttsworth
30 May 2011 @ 11:04 am
We were once teething for knowledge
In becoming well-rounded sinners—
A silent audience to the end times gala
Entertaining decency, clamoring for a host—
In transmuting echo an influence like fire:
     "All my plans go down."
     And, that was all she said.

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I listened to the music. It poured on me like leaves; I fell fascinated. With that much creativity bursting in my ears, I am left wondering what type of [other] influence would be necessary. Perhaps evolution takes time. Perhaps that time is spent dreaming of better days. For the sake of the fateful artist, there will always be room to grow in the vacancy of boundaries. And, I am all ears.
Current Mood: creativecreative
Current Music: http://blip.fm/buttsworth
03 May 2011 @ 03:41 pm

Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: http://the13thplate.blogspot.com
The two swordsmen fell faceless from the Heavens
Draped in heavy vengeance for the score of blood;
Before the nocturne-moon through clouds they fell—
Whose glimpses of Hell contribute wrought their venture—
Illuminating brighter than the Heavens themselves
When in fury surmounted touched edge their blades.

Allowing my self to dry, I brought my modest knees to the ground and prayed—an action I had not carried out since my early days of childhood, a time when being bountifully taught that conscientious way of life: Collapsing is letting go—but is still a force nonetheless. Altruistically, I prayed for those I loved, administering clearance of my softer parts of heart, and then at last mention spoke, “A seeker who is not lost in the labyrinth seeks not guidance.”

Quietly I stayed, and years of my lifetime passed—there a mind set fastened beneath these principles—until I extricated my final breath. I stayed silent; there; as my knees with the ground merged as one, a vital singularity, until no tolerance of moisture in me remained.

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Current Mood: indescribable
Current Music: http://blip.fm/buttsworth
Preface: a system as solar
As a gazing star: all among all
By the contents of a circle
Burning the eternal itch
Perplexed from scratch
Has birthed the universe
Where reasons come of age
And in a bevy of sound decay
Found lost in their space.

We are but two planets of the same star, sleeping sweetly as quintessential dreamers of the same vast dream. Violet amid the lantern lit where the sky draws seen, bravery cascades upon the first days of it waning; and nothing shall compete with moon.

Like light I held her, outwardly forever. There eclipsed amidst the broken heart, I held her until she was no longer you. This revenant-heart of mine, a rhythmic conviction illusive to its subconscious, lies unfathomable and austere, buried in your wonderland.
Current Music: http://blip.fm/bttswrth
He used to tell me with uncommon courtesy that a surrealist should benefit from a decadent lifestyle—poor him forsaken, enduring all his wealth.

His was a personal victory. His was the laughter in joy, and in what he enjoyed he slaughtered. His scars were toys entrenched in place of state; that was where I met him, in a triumphalist dead pool rationed with ideals. The praxis wept to me, a professor of the profound, like hollow shade averring transfiguration in keeping dark from the sun.

Negating the unimaginable, as it was—as is—fate had me wait. Pressed forward in good time—or of lesser quality—hereby the middle way, I myself am entranced with understanding. I dream of fate, and by the ordinance of manifestations, I wake.

And, this I see by way of sky, as perished by the sea.
Current Mood: creativecreative
Current Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qqe0GdUpJHs&feature=relmfu